


The Love Song Of [redacted] [redacted] Eames

by storm_of_sharp_things



Series: Here Beside You and Me [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Romantic Fluff, T.S. Eliot - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/pseuds/storm_of_sharp_things
Summary: Previously in our TS Eliot-infused series “Here Beside You and Me,” Arthur had thought Eames was dead and had gone to Toronto ("Eyes I Dare Not Meet In Dreams"). Eames was not, of course, dead.So now, those lost having been found, Eames must somehow (I wonder how) persuade Arthur not to kill him.The title is a (funny to me) twist on TS Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock”





	The Love Song Of [redacted] [redacted] Eames

Eames wanted to pull Arthur through the streets of Toronto faster, if only he knew where they were going, if only he'd worn pants under his trousers like a civilized human, if only his hard cock wasn't chafing like a bitch against the wet fabric that might as well be sandpaper at the moment.

But he didn't care - he had his Arthur.

His heart might actually have stopped when he’d seen the notification of the credit card charge come through from the mailing service, once he'd made it back to civilization and an Internet connection.

His little package, his peace-of-mind, his oh-so-clever little deadman switch, _had actually been mailed_. And Eames _wasn't even dead yet_ , which meant Arthur, his magnificently lethal light-of-his-life and the waking terror of the dreamsharing world, was going to _murder him_ over a clerical error.

He'd left a bad job in Rio months ago, which Arthur had predictably cleaned up (his dependable, vengeful, bloodthirsty angel), and had expected to work off his pique in Argentina for a while before going back to deadly, dangerous, and scathing Arthur, who was likely to give him _that look_ for ever agreeing to work with Angelo again. 

He'd never even made it out of the Aeroparque in Buenos Aires. He'd stepped into a washroom and felt a touch on his neck and next thing he knew, he was waking up to some old friends with questions. At least they’d tried asking nicely first, a courtesy not every shadowy criminal group extended to their targets. Truly, the underground art world still harboured a few gentlemen thieves. They'd even provided alcohol, dice, and cards to pass the time between questionings.

And they'd eventually accepted his polite refusal to pass on the information (and people) they sought, only indulging in a few temperamental expressions of regret in return. No important bones broken, a handful of new scars to manage; really, they'd let him off easy (something he'd have to persuade his darling of, lest Arthur get distracted into a long-term bloody quest for blokes that really weren't all that bad, considering).

Eventually, all they'd demanded for his freedom were a handful of art forgeries. To be done _now_. And look, Eames old boy, what a lovely island hideaway we've brought you to with no connection to the outside world, all the painting supplies you could ever desire, and all the solitude and time you need to do a really bang-up and undetectable job of it. Just get right to it, yeah?

Arthur was giving him his patented ‘what the hell are you on about, Eames’ look in the hotel hallway and Eames realized, to his horror, he'd been babbling out loud, spilling everything he'd been thinking.

“Er. I was alone on that island for months and I might've gotten into the habit of talking out loud, just for the company, mind you, and it's not as if I really have any secrets from you, do I, petal, and bloody hell I'm still doing it, aren't I?”

And Arthur, his beautiful and ruthless Arthur, his Arthur who could out-fight thugs and militia and underworld criminals and government goons and lions and tigers and bears, was giving him a soft smile and pulling him close for a kiss and he couldn't rip off their wet clothes yet because they weren't yet safe in the hotel room with a locked door and he might not have shaken off Giovanni’s bunch like he thought and the last thing he wanted to do was put his darling in any danger…

“Giovanni,” Arthur said flatly.

Eames covered his own mouth with his hand and gave Arthur a pleading look. Arthur might still kill him, but probably not until after they'd had sex. And Eames, if he did say so himself, had a more than fair chance of preventing his own murder if he could just get Arthur underneath him properly.

“You're still thinking out loud, Eames.”

He squeezed his eyes shut in despair. He heard Arthur sigh and then his hand was on Eames’ arm, pulling him into the hotel room and securing the door behind them.

In the bathroom, Arthur started the tub filling and efficiently stripped them both, tossing their wet things under the counter. He shoved Eames against the cold tile wall and stared hard at him. “Giovanni,” he prompted. “Giovanni from the job we did in Florence last year?”

Eames nodded. “Picked up my trail after my old friends dropped me in Rome. Thinks we scarpered with more than our fair share. Thinks he deserved more out of that job than we agreed on. Thinks we put out the word that he's unreliable and people’ve been avoiding him.”

“He _is_ unreliable. And delusional.”

Eames nodded again. “And got friends now that think he's a way to good money, if they can just get the gossip moving in the right direction by knocking the competition down a few pegs.”

Arthur, his darling Arthur, who had been looking exhausted and thin and sad and worn down, who had actually had a _fragile_ look about him that had stunned Eames when he'd turned to see him with that bloody poker chip held up, his Arthur, _Eames_ ’ Arthur, who had barely been able to meet his eyes this whole time, went away under the stony and efficient Arthur who'd become the most legendary Point Man in dreamshare.

“We've got time, love,” Eames pleaded. “I last saw them in Miami. There's hours and hours before they could possibly even be at the airport, much less finding us here at the hotel.”

And Point-Man-Arthur-who-looked-like-he-might-as-well-be-at-work-even-if-he-was-naked-in-the-bath-for-fucks-sake-and-absolutely-not-wearing-his-usual-bewilderingly-sexy-waistcoat-and-sinful-trousers gave him an even look, then dropped his gaze to Eames’ still-stiff cock. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “You might be a little too biased for this discussion, Mr Eames.”

And Eames, who was not about to allow Arthur to put off the really really good part of their reunion to deal with a little minor clusterfuckery, reached out, picked up Arthur under the armpits, and stepped into the tub with him. He knew Arthur got off on his occasional displays of strength, Arthur who was slim and swift and steely like the finest of knives. Eames had once lost his patience with an argument they'd been having and scooped Arthur up and tossed him halfway across the room onto a bed and Arthur hadn't been able to keep his hands off Eames for _days_.

So he damn well knew how to distract Arthur at need. And Arthur made a noise deep in his throat, eyes wide, as Eames set him back on his feet in the tub and cupped his face with his hands and yes, _there_ was his Arthur. His Arthur with tired black smudges under his aroused and dilated eyes, collarbones more prominent than they ever should be, pale and weary, and starting to shiver ever so slightly as he stood wet in the hotel air conditioning and held on to Eames’ shoulders. His Arthur who had clearly not taken care of himself and Eames ruthlessly pushed down that guilt for another time and settled down in the warm bath with Arthur tucked back against his chest. He wrapped his legs over Arthur's, holding them apart and pressing Arthur back against Eames’ hips and stomach (and only incidentally against his impatient cock) and wrapped comfortingly around him from behind. If he had to squirm a little to get them both disposed properly, well…

Arthur made a tiny sound of amusement. “I _know_ what you're doing, Eames.”

“Oh?” Eames kissed along the edge of Arthur's ear. “What is it you think I'm doing, petal?”

“Rubbing off on my back.”

“Oh well, yes, that too. But that's not _all_.”

“Amusing me to distract me from considering how long I could skin you before you passed out?”

“…well, that too.”

“Or from determining just how deep I could insert that fucking poker chip in parts of you that should not ever be exposed to open air?”

Eames rubbed lasciviously against Arthur's back. “Definitely that too, darling.”

Arthur sighed. “I suppose if I allow it now, you'll last longer in bed later.”

“If you’ll _allow_ …”

Arthur snorted quietly. “Eames.” He settled back wearily, neck arched as his head rested on Eames’ shoulder.

Eames let his hands slide up to rest on Arthur's shoulders, nudging Arthur's head to tilt a little so he could kiss and nuzzle behind his ear. “I am so sorry,” he whispered softly. “More sorry than I can properly express.”

Arthur sighed again, closing his eyes. “‘…your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing.’”

Eames pressed his lips to Arthur’s throat, breathing gently for a moment. Then he made his mouth quirk and forced a light tone. “Fuck me, love, did I really reduce you to Modernist poetry?”

Arthur's mouth curved up, but his voice was very soft. “‘Eyes I dare not meet in dreams…’”

“‘In death’s dream kingdom?’ Arthur…”

“I couldn't stop seeing you. I didn't dare go under.”

Eames shivered and wrapped around him again. “I never wanted to be your shade.”

“Apparently, and I assure you that I was not aware of this, I want otherwise.”

Eames paused, stricken at the thought, and then another occurred to him, and he bit down hard on Arthur's shoulder, just short of drawing blood.

Arthur's eyes flew open and he clenched his fingers on Eames’ thighs viciously. “What the hell, Eames?” he shouted.

“What the hell is wrong with _me_ that that's the most bloody touching thing I've ever heard fall out of your mouth?” Eames shouted back. “And to realize I’d probably do the same damn thing in your place! I'd have to give up dreaming if you died, you fucking wanker!”

There was a pause. “No, you'd have to stop _working_ in dreamshare,” Arthur said quietly, reaching up to rub at the bite. “Because otherwise, without going under regularly, you'd start dreaming naturally.”

“Sodding…” Eames dropped his head back with a thunk against the tile above the tub. “What a thought to be haunted by. Don't mind me, just queuing up apologies for the next fifty years.”

Arthur made a quiet noise that someone else might have mistaken for amusement. “‘Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together, But when I look ahead up the white road, There is always another one walking beside you, Gliding, hooded —who is that on the other side of you?’”

“Well, it would appear,” Eames growled, “that it's either you or me, depending on the perspective.”

Arthur's mouth turned up, a little, and he pulled Eames’ arms around him. “I'm glad you're here,” he whispered, staring up at the ceiling.

Eames held him very tightly for a moment, then relaxed a bit and kissed at the bite mark he'd left on Arthur's shoulder, gently moving his tongue over the indentations. “Well, congratulations,” he grumbled into Arthur's skin.

Arthur smiled, his dimples appearing. “For?”

“Somehow making it impossible for me to rub one out against the small of your back. May have to mark it on the bleeding calendar.”

Arthur smiled. “I did say you weren't allowed until we were in bed…”

“Oi! You said I could _here_!”

“No, I was merely considering it. Permission was never explicitly given.”

“Fine,” Eames huffed. “Why are we still in this tub again?” Arthur took a slightly shaky breath and Eames nipped his ear. “The correct answer, pet, is _not_ because you thought we'd never do this again.”

“Then how about because torturing you a little seemed like a good idea at the time?”

Eames laughed, shaking Arthur where he lay against him and making him smile ruefully. “That, yes. _That_ I believe wholeheartedly. Bed, pet, _now_.”

Arthur gave a theatrical sniff, not moving. “You think you're giving the orders now?”

Eames grinned, pushed them both forward, then surged up to his feet, picking up Arthur in his arms on the way. Arthur’s gasp turned into a moan and he was instantly hard, clutching Eames wildly, eyes wide and dark. “Why use words, darling, when actions speak so loudly?”

“Eames…”

“Shhh, there's a love. Just hold on until we get to bed.”

Arthur nodded, utterly aroused and slowly relaxing in Eames’ arms. Rarely did his absolute trust show so clearly and Eames treasured every moment that it did; considered each instance more precious than all the jewels in human history, the finest of artworks, mountains of gold and silver…

Arthur dimpled at him and reached a hand up to cover Eames’ mouth. “Not that I _mind_ …”

“Buggering hell,” Eames mumbled against his palm.

“We'll go into a long dream later,” Arthur said. “Let you work it out of your system faster than real time.”

Eames nodded, navigating through the room to place Arthur gently on the bed. “Lube?” he asked, looking around.

Arthur frowned. “I think there's some in that small pocket of my suitcase…”

Eames placed him carefully on the bed, reaching out to touch his face. “Hold on to the mood, Arthur,” he commanded.

“While you sexily look for lube. Sure, that's bound to keep me squirming, Eames.”

Eames grinned down at him fondly. “My Arthur.”

“And there's another thing. _Yours_? We need to talk about that.”

“No we don't,” Eames contradicted him cheerfully, turning to search Arthur's luggage. “Aha!” he announced, throwing himself onto the bed next to Arthur, small bottle clutched in one hand.

Arthur unsuccessfully fought with his dimples. “Eames, I'm …”

Eames shifted over him, on his knees and elbows, caging Arthur in and bringing their faces close. His expression was suddenly serious. “There are many things we could and probably should talk about, Arthur, but this is not one of them.” He took a deep breath. “Ani l'dodi v'dodi li,” he murmured, the Hebrew falling easily from him, though Arthur knew it wasn't one of Eames’ many languages.

Arthur’s face went utterly soft and shocked. “Eames,” he whispered. “Beloved.”

Eames closed his eyes and touched his forehead to Arthur's, their mouths just grazing, breaths mingling for a long sweet moment.

Then he huffed lightly and pushed up onto his knees, tucking his bared soul away under a fond and teasing leer. “Let's get back to the naked activities, darling,” he grinned, waggling his eyebrows and flourishing the lube.

And Arthur had no recourse but to laugh until his stomach hurt, shoving Eames off him and curling on his side. Eames affected the most comical wounded expression. “Arthur. I am _hurt_. I am actually…no, stop laughing… _Arthur_ …” He made an exasperated noise and flopped onto his back to mock-glare at the ceiling. “And here I thought you were gagging for my cock…do stop choking, petal, it isn't a good look on you.” Eames dropped the bottle onto the bed and reached down to fondle himself while arching a suggestive eyebrow at Arthur. “Don't mind me, I'll just valiantly carry on while you compose yourself…”

Arthur settled, sighed, smiled, shifted so he could rest his cheek on Eames’ shoulder, rubbing at his stomach with a teasing hand and watching him stroke himself. “So valiant,” he said. “Bravely persevering in the face of such incredible odds.” He reached out to gently rub his thumb over the head of Eames’ cock.

Eames inhaled hard, his head arching back, then he let go of himself and twisted to face Arthur, kissing him demandingly. “Now, Arthur. No more delays.”

Arthur pretended to consider that for a moment. When Eames growled, he dimpled at him and rose to his knees, facing the headboard and holding onto it with his hands, spreading his knees wide and looking over his shoulder at Eames with an inquiring eyebrow.

Eames gave him the most wickedly salacious look in his repertoire. “You think you can stay up like that while I have my fingers in you, love?”

Arthur smiled serenely. “You think you can make me drop?”

“Oh, _Arthur_ ,” Eames said delightedly, and positioned himself at Arthur’s side, picking up the lube and slicking the fingers of one hand, then holding Arthur's chin to kiss him while his slicked fingers slid down to press slowly into him one at a time. Arthur moaned into Eames’ mouth, leaning into him while his hands clenched on the top of the headboard.

Eames was wholly impressed with Arthur's bloody-minded determination; though he shuddered and his thighs quivered, he never dropped down to the bed or let go of the headboard while Eames worked him open. Eames loved fingering Arthur, loved to linger and play; Arthur always responded like a cat being rubbed, twisting and stretching and purring loudly under the attention. Eames couldn't help murmuring praise into Arthur's mouth amid slow kisses, eating the little raw sounds Arthur yielded up to him.

Arthur protested wordlessly against Eames’ mouth as he finally slid his fingers free. “Hush, pet,” Eames soothed as he shifted him. “So good for me, so perfect.” He laid Arthur on his back, nodding approvingly as Arthur's legs fell apart in hungry invitation. “That's right, love,” he said as he stroked his palms up Arthur's thighs, spreading him open even further. “Tell me you're ready for me, Arthur, tell me how I need to be inside you.”

“Eames, please…”

“Yes, just like that, exactly,” Eames murmured as he settled between Arthur's thighs, leaning forward over him. “Tell me, love, what do you need?”

Arthur shuddered at the feel of Eames rubbing against his entrance. “God, Eames, quit teasing and just put your damn cock in me already!”

Eames smirked, then took a breath and held still, looking down at Arthur intently. “Are you awake?”

“What? Yes!”

Eames nodded, sliding back and forth against him slightly. “Is this reality? Do you remember how we got here?”

Arthur went still, staring up at Eames. “Yes,” he said, his eyes wide and dilated.

“Am I here, Arthur? Are _we_ here, skin to skin, pulse laid against pulse, breathing together, holding each other's gaze, living warmth pressed to living warmth?”

Arthur reached up to hold Eames’ face, to pull him down and brush their mouths together. “Yes,” he breathed. “Please, Eames, _please_ …”

Eames sank into him, pressing them together, anchoring Arthur with his body, pinning him to the bed while Arthur moaned into his mouth. Eames tried to keep their rhythm slow, but Arthur wrapped his legs around his waist and pulled him tight, demanding, trying to rock up and force Eames into a faster pace. Eames let him set their pace, gave Arthur everything he asked for, everything he didn't, everything Eames could think of, until Arthur was gasping out nothing but his name, over and over again, until his voice was hoarse and he was shuddering underneath Eames, his face tucked into Eames’ neck as he came, his arms clutching Eames tightly, and Eames followed him over the edge with a rough and incoherent cry.

Arthur was drifting when Eames pushed himself up and off of him, and Eames caressed his face, frowning at the shadows and lines there. “Go to sleep, darling,” he whispered and slipped away for a warm, damp flannel.

Arthur was stubbornly still awake when he came out of the bath, tense, eyes half-closed but tracking Eames as soon as he came into view, until Eames came over to the bed and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Arthur,” he said quietly, leaning down to brush his mouth over Arthur's forehead. Arthur sighed and let his eyes slip shut, asleep before Eames even touched him with the flannel. Rather than leave him again after cleaning him up, Eames dropped the flannel on the floor and settled behind Arthur, nuzzling the short fine hairs at the back of his neck as he cuddled him, maintaining as much contact as possible.

Eames did not sleep; he watched the grey and rainy afternoon deepen to early evening, holding Arthur safe in his arms, and only incidentally keeping Arthur's arms tucked to his sides, the better to prevent an elbow to any soft bits should Arthur have a nightmare. Arthur, awoken badly in the midst of a nightmare, was a fitting subject for a cautionary tale that ended with the other party in intensive care.

And a nightmare did indeed occur, or at least the start of one. Eames recognized the twitches - very different from Arthur's normal sleep pattern - and slid a hand down to cup Arthur's cock, reaching to tickle slightly behind his balls.

Arthur went still, sucking in a single breath before opening his eyes. “Eames.”

“Of course, darling,” he purred. “Who _else_ would wake you so? Because I would have no problem with shooting them in cold blood, you know.”

Arthur barked a laugh and turned in his arms to nestle under Eames’ chin. “Speaking of cold blood…”

Eames pretended offense. “My blood is hardly cold.”

Arthur angled his head and bit the side of his throat, holding it and sucking a deep bruise before letting go, brushing the back of his hand against Eames’ rapidly hardening cock. “You're right, you feel fairly warm to me right now,” he murmured, smiling against Eames’ skin. “Pity we're talking about Giovanni.”

“Ugh, pet, why bring _that_ to bed with us?”

“Because we need to deal with him.”

Eames grinned at him. “Oh Arthur, you know it does it for me when you go all lethal at me.”

“Control yourself for the moment, _sweetie_.”

Eames winced. “No. No, that doesn't work at all, love. Please don't.”

Arthur laughed again, sharp and focused, on point while still naked in his arms, and Eames hadn't known he could be as aroused as he suddenly was. He leaned to kiss at Arthur's ear. “If we're going to discuss taking anyone out, would you mind waiting until I've turned over and you're inside me? Really, it'll save time all round.”

Arthur scoffed. “As if you can form sentences when I'm inside you, Mr Eames.”

“Bloody hell, love, you _know_ what calling me that does. Let me just…” Eames fumbled to shove a hand down between them, reaching for his own aching cock, and Arthur, fast as a lightning strike, had him pinned on his back, wrists held down above his head.

“Don't be so impatient,” Arthur grinned down at him, straddling Eames’ hips.

Eames closed his eyes, trying for an even breath. “Arrthurrrrr…”

“We've got time, Eames, remember?”

He sighed. “‘There will be time, there will be time.’”

Arthur’s smile sharpened and his eyes lit up. “‘To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet,’ O forger mine?”

Eames gave him back a matching sharp grin. “‘There will be time to murder….’”

“‘ _And_ create,’” Arthur added.

Eames took a deep breath and shifted his hips a little, distracting Arthur enough that Eames managed, by sheer strength, to pull him down and flip them, pinning Arthur underneath him. “‘Time for you and time for me,’ love,” he replied with a wicked leer.

Arthur laughed in delight, fully aroused himself now. “Oh, is it going to be like that?”

“Not ‘going to be,’ darling. _Is_.”

“That hasn't been settled yet,” Arthur said, his dark eyes narrowing even as his dimples showed.

“I rather think I've the upper hand at the…oof!” Eames found himself face down in the pillows, pinned hard with Arthur’s teeth in his shoulder and Arthur's legs spreading his own. “Oh fuck, get in me now, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled as he held Eames’ hands securely in the small of his back and reached for the lube. “Are you losing your edge, Mr Eames?”

“One should never meet an edge with an edge, pet, lest you damage or destroy both… _nnnngghhh_ …oh god, yes, like that, just like that.” Eames squirmed against the bed as Arthur slipped a slick finger, and then a second, into him.

Arthur laughed softly, smug and in control, holding him firmly, and Eames adored him like that, was relieved beyond measure that Arthur was so much himself again. He happily ceded all control and let Arthur have his way with him, begging easily when Arthur demanded it of him.

When they settled again, Eames was sleepy and contented on his back with Arthur tucked against his side, an arm thrown across Eames’ chest, fingers lightly stroking his far shoulder. Eames turned his head to mouth at Arthur's dark curls, and Arthur leaned away from him, trying to look firm around his telltale dimples.

“Stop that,” he ordered, fighting down a smile.

“Whatever you say, petal,” Eames said fondly.

“Giovanni.”

Eames groaned. “More persistent than mold.”

“Yes, _that's_ flattering.”

“Wasn't meant to be,” Eames muttered.

“Pay attention, because there's an easy solution.”

Eames raised a lazy eyebrow. “Lina told you to never contact her again on pain of pain.”

“But I never had Giovanni to offer her.”

“Hmm. Does Giovanni merit a fate worse than death?”

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe they'll kill each other.”

“The grim reaper is too afraid of Lina to try and collect her. But she’s definitely the lesser of two evils.”

“She's not delusional and doesn't hold unearned grudges.”

“Not to mention, darling, that this would clear your slate with her.”

“A not inconsiderable point.” Arthur sat up, all business, and reached for his phone. “Eames, grab my laptop and make a reservation at a good hotel here in our names.”

“We're going to make it that easy for Giovanni? The Four Seasons it is then.”

“Mmm. No, we might want to stay there in the future without complications. Make it the Fairmont.”

Eames laughed. “You are such a spoiled prat.”

Arthur waved away the accusation as he dialed. Eames faintly heard the ringing as well as when it stopped. “How badly do you want Giovanni?” Arthur asked flatly. “Hmm. Perhaps we might be able to come to an agreement.” He listened for a moment. “I can deliver tonight, most likely.” He raised an eyebrow at Eames, indicating the laptop. Eames turned it to face him, showing the completed reservation.

Arthur nodded. “That's acceptable. At the Fairmont Royal York. Yes, in Toronto.” He listened for a moment longer. “Just send me a text, either way. Yes, a pleasure doing business with you as well, Lina.” He paused, his spine straightening. “Yes, I'll pass that along to Eames, and I appreciate the heads-up.” Arthur ended the call and frowned out the window.

Eames got up and started packing Arthur's things, tossing him a lovely pair of grey trousers, a white oxford, and a darker grey cashmere jumper. He gathered Arthur's still-damp clothing into a spare plastic trash bag and pulled his on, scowling at the clamminess around his bits. “Not so secret any more, are we?” he asked wryly.

“Mmm,” Arthur said, dressing himself neatly and quickly. “Neither of us were quiet about our searches.” He pulled out all the drawers to ensure he’d emptied them, and opened the safe. Eames blinked at the PASIV and felt a fresh wave of guilt, compelling him to pull Arthur into a fierce hug. Arthur held on to him for a long moment, then pushed away.

“How do you feel about Montreal?”

Eames blinked. “You probably love shopping on the Rue St-Paul. Don't they look down on your perfect Parisian accent, darling?”

Arthur wrinkled his nose at him. “You've never seen the safe house north of Montreal, have you?”

“The cabin in the mountains? No.” He grinned. “Are we going to rough it, pet? Wood stove and sleeping bags and mosquito netting?”

Arthur gave him a level look as he finished packing his suitcases. “Plumbing and electricity and actual furniture, Eames. Not to mention a reliable internet connection.” The corner of his mouth tucked up slightly. “Though there is a wood stove.”

Eames was delighted. “Will we have to chop wood?”

Arthur gave him a wry look. “Planning to impersonate a lumberjack? Shirtless, no doubt, sweaty muscles gleaming in the sun?”

Eames beamed at him. “You know I am perfectly willing to indulge any of your little fantasies, darling.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Union Station is just a few blocks away. We should be in time to catch an evening train to Montreal, and we can rent a car from there.”

“Arthur, you _know_ how much I love trains. Are you coddling me?” Eames took his hand and pulled him into the hallway toward the elevator.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Arthur said with a faint smile. “I'm just too tired to drive right now.”

“Of course, love. And you can sleep on the train.”

“Damn right.”

Hours later, stretched out in business class, Arthur's phone buzzed, waking them both from a light doze. He glanced at it, then smiled. “Lina sends her thanks and suggests she possibly even owes us a favor. Apparently there were several international bounties to be collected on Giovanni and his lads.”

“We're still going to the cabin, yes?” Eames asked with a yawn. “I feel in dire need of a little vacation, if I'm honest.”

Arthur took Eames’ hand, twining their fingers together before bringing his hand to his mouth. “Go to sleep, Mr Eames,” he said with a smile and kissed the back of his hand.

Eames smiled at him drowsily, rubbing his thumb against Arthur's hand. “‘And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep... tired...’”

Arthur nodded, yawning mightily himself before curling sideways in his seat to face Eames and finishing the quote in a whisper. “‘…here beside you and me.’”

**Author's Note:**

> Some slight liberties (mostly omissions) were taken with the quotes, but that happens in real life, too (or at least in mine). Exact quotes and full attribution below. 
> 
> Your arms full, your hair wet, I could not  
> Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither  
> Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,  
> "The Waste Land"  
> -T.S. Eliot
> 
> Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
> In death's dream kingdom  
> These do not appear:  
> "The Hollow Men"  
> -T.S. Eliot
> 
> Who is the third who walks always beside you?  
> When I count, there are only you and I together  
> But when I look ahead up the white road  
> There is always another one walking beside you  
> Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded  
> I do not know whether a man or a woman  
> —But who is that on the other side of you?  
> "The Waste Land"  
> -T.S. Eliot
> 
> אֲנִי לְדוֹדִי וְדוֹדִי לִי  
> Ani l'dodi v'dodi li  
> I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine  
> "Song of Solomon"
> 
> There will be time, there will be time  
> To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  
> There will be time to murder and create,  
> And time for all the works and days of hands  
> That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
> Time for you and time for me,  
> And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
> And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
> "The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock"  
> -T.S. Eliot
> 
> And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!  
> Smoothed by long fingers,  
> Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,  
> Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.  
> "The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock"  
> -T.S. Eliot


End file.
